


Kiss for the Camera

by slashsailing



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Age Difference, Awkward Romance, College, First Kiss, French Kissing, M/M, Making Out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 08:08:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3112403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashsailing/pseuds/slashsailing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on that 'First Kiss' video. </p><p>Volenteering as a favour to Natasha, Clint ends up kissing a total stranger. It isn't as easy as he'd expected—but all in all, it goes pretty damn well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kiss for the Camera

Clint isn’t nervous, he really isn’t. And while it may be said that the lady doth protest too much, he swears, he isn’t nervous at all. Not a shred. An iota. Not one little tiny—

Okay. So he  _wasn’t_ nervous, and that much had been true. It’s just a kiss, a favour to a friend of Natasha’s—and who knew Tash had friends besides him?—and Clint never saw it as a big deal. 

But then his apparent first kiss buddy walks on set and Clint has to admit a few sharp spikes of nervous energy prickle up his spine. The guy probably has just shy of a decade on Clint and he’s dressed in a sharp suit with this casual aura of authority radiating off him in waves, Clint imagines they’d be torrents of blue and dark indigo, calming and foreboding in turn and Clint’s stomach clenches at the thought of all that competence bound up in silk-lined pinstripes and classy Italian shoes. 

And what must he look like? In ratty jeans which, sure, are totally en vogue but really not what this guy is probably used to being confronted with when he locks mouths with someone. And his too-tight white t-shirt that definitely said M on the packaging but it turned out that some store’s medium sizes are supposed to restrict blood-flow around the chest. Which might be a good thing, Clint’s in damn good shape—maybe the t-shirt was an unintentional winner on his part. 

Of course, his purple hoodie, unzipped and stretched a little from where Clint shoves his hands into his pockets so often, is a total winner. Anyone who doesn’t appreciate it will never appreciate the finer points of Clint Barton.

"Hi." Clint thinks he’s smiling, his mouth  _feels_  like it’s smiling anyway. That’s got to be a good start. When he feels the heat rising over his neck and cheeks, Clint’s suddenly overwhelmed by how ridiculous he must appear, coy like a blushing virgin in front of this guy who looks so proper as to have only ever engaged in a series of long-term serious relationships and what the  _hell_  is he doing here standing opposite Clint and about to kiss him?

"Hi," is the response Clint recieves. All gentle smiles with little crinkles at the edges of his eyes that makes Clint want to flop in on himself and scream because he isn’t supposed to find that hot or endearing this is just supposed to be a stupid damn kiss for some sociology major’s final project. 

"So do we just—" Clint tugs the rough skin of his chapped lower lip between his teeth, gesturing between himself and the other man before looking offset to the camera guy and the woman standing beside him—Natasha’s friend, Maria Hill. 

"Yeah," she encourages, nodding. There is amusement in her eyes that Clint doesn’t like one bit. Like she knows something Clint doesn’t, or worse—like she can see right through him—right into his head. "Take your time, whenever you’re ready." 

Clint lets out a breath, trying to imbue it with bravado or something else, _anything_ else as long as it doesn’t hint at the nervous anticipation knotting itself in his stomach. 

"I’m Phil, by the way." 

Clint swallows. This guy’s voice—Phil’s voice—is pretty, well, it’s making Clint a little lightheaded to say the least. It’s not at all how Clint imagined; it’s not rough and sharp, not disinterested. It’s strangely light, something wry, almost playful mingling in assured undertones of confidence and ease. 

"Clint," is just about all he can manage before he has to swallow again and look away. Clint Barton isn’t shy, that just isn’t him—he’s got this. He can do this. "So we’re gonna make out?" Clint continues, letting out a breath alongside a wolfish grin, feeling better by waves as Phil lets out a surprised huff of laughter and smiles again, bright and with the eye creases. 

And as if the wonderful tinkling sound has ricocheted right through him, Clint laughs too, ducking his head and looking up at Phil through light eyelashes. Phil, who watches Clint with the same sort of careful observation you afford a bird before it leaps from a branch, hopeful and yet a little cautious, knowing it will fly, that it will soar—almost certain of it in the very root of your bones—but still unable to get the thud thud of your trembling heartbeat to slow down. 

Because anything could happen. 

That’s how Phil—this stranger in a suit with a crooked smile—makes Clint feel. Like anything could happen. 

And what better way to start anything than with a kiss. 

A tentative, hesitant brush of lips that blooms like huge sunflowers in the depths of Clint’s twisting stomach, among the butterflies and the tumultuous ocean that resides inside him, sweeping him up with the dry press of their mouths, opening all of a sudden and not nearly soon enough. Phil’s arms are surprisingly strong around Clint’s waist, pulling him closer until Clint is awkwardly bent backwards with the force of the kiss and the unyielding tug of Phil’s hands on his back and down over his spine, resting gently on Clint’s hips until he’s breathless. Phil's mouth is warm and soft and his tongue traces Clint's lower lip before edging against his own—exploratory and playful, and Clint's heart races. 

 _Wow_ is pretty much the only word Clint has left in his head. He might even say it aloud but he doesn’t know because of the rushing in his head. But he knows he’s blinking, owlish, like a complete idiot and Phil has teasing in his eyes like he knows that’s exactly what Clint is—and yet, he doesn’t seem to mind. Phil eases his hands from Clint’s body but doesn’t completely pull away without first holding onto Clint’s elbows and then his wrists and then just barely touching their fingers together. To steady himself. To steady Clint. 

"That was pretty good," Clint whispers, not really needing affirmation but so glad when Phil nods his assent. 

The camera man, who introduced himself as Jasper Sitwell, murmurs his own agreement and may or may not tell them to get a room. 

"Thanks, guys." Maria’s voice carries over Jasper’s and snaps Clint and Phil out of the little bubble that had started to form around them. "Great work." 

Clint just nods, pulling at the shoulder of his zipper that has gone askew under Phil’s hand. 

"I uh," Clint doesn’t know what exactly he was planning to say but he’s really not ready for this to be over yet. "I don’t usually dine and dash," is what he settles on. Phil’s forehead gives an almost imperceptible twitch of confusion before the side of his lip quirks upward. 

"Oh yeah?" 

 _Not half way through the meal, anyway_  Clint wants to say, but he doesn’t. He’s not a complete jackass. 

"You free now? Maybe for coffee?" Is what he opts for instead. 

"I think I can pencil you in." 

Something about the way Phil looks at him tells Clint that there might be a little more than coffee on the cards. Clint certainly hopes so. 


End file.
